


beautiful remains

by kalypsobean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Blood Drinking, F/M, Infidelity, Original Character Death(s), Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:41:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benny's hitting "a rough patch".<br/>spoilers up to 8.10 <i>Torn and Frayed</i><br/>for prompt "just my style" from salt_burn_porn</p>
            </blockquote>





	beautiful remains

He's parked his camper in a closed-down campground; there's no power and it's quiet like he hasn't had since Carencro, except it's no longer welcome insulation. Every small sound has him on edge, listening for a pulse. It's trivial for him to run through the forest and come out near somewhere populated, easy enough that he does it without thinking and doesn't always know where he is.

He could get on the road again, or go deeper into the forest, but he knows he'll only end up doing the same thing further south. At least it's winter, cold enough for people to stay inside with their fires lit and blinds down, safely away from him; he hunts at night, in case of hikers, but deer blood runs acrid down his throat and he still feels it inside him, wrapping around his heart and forcing his dreams, such as they are, towards eighty beats a minute of sweet coppery blood and soft human skin.

 

He sees her when he ventures out for cell service and a trip past the blood bank; she looks right at him and smiles. He feels his teeth coming in and runs, fighting the thought of her throat bared to him and his hands in her hair as she falls limp and pales, the memory of warmth flooding through him and the feeling of strength as oxygen infuses abandoned muscles with energy.

 

She's there again the next time he risks daylight, almost helpless against the need to be close to them, children playing, people shopping, her watching. She talks to him and he doesn't know what he's saying back, the sound of her blood drowning out everything but her voice and her pulse and her scent.

He follows her to her apartment as if in a dream and doesn't remember that he wasn't invited, this time.

 

She lets him in two days later, and even though he drank a bobcat and all but the last of his AB-negative he still wants her, like she was put there for him.

He kisses her neck and feels his teeth on the inside of his mouth; she calls him a gentleman and unbuttons her blouse, pulls at her hair until it falls loose over her shoulders.

She looks like Andrea; her hair is just that shade of brown and her lips are soft on his skin as she strips him to the waist. He feels naked before her, terrified that it shows in his eyes, that she'll ask him a question or will feel something wrong as she pulls his head to her chest. 

"Make it quick; my husband will be home any minute," she says, and he knows what this is, what he's being used for; his rage is unfamiliar to him as it unleashes from his core in a way that focuses him so completely he doesn't remember that he's supposed to be abhorred by this, the way his mouth fits over her breast and the skin dents under his teeth as he closes it over her nipple and sucks. She makes a soft sound, like she's breathing out but more, just a bit louder, and he lets his hand wander down her stomach and around her hips; her hands are either side of his head and she hoists herself onto his lap, a leg either side of his, and he holds her there as she shifts forward and back on his thigh.

"Let me, let me," she says, once he's mapped the softest parts of her torso with his hands and left scratches down her back just deep enough to fill the air with her aroma, metallic and sour and so beautiful he helps her out of her jeans.

"I don't have anything," he remembers to say, his voice thick through his bloodlust, and she laughs and straddles him as her hands work at his belt. "It doesn't matter," she says into his ear before she bites down gently, tentatively, as if this is as bad as she's ever been.

He wished his body didn't betray him as she holds him and slowly works herself open on the head of his dick. He closes his eyes and thinks of Andrea, how easy it was back then, how her perfume dulled his senses so it wasn't this excruciating; now he's inside her, she's warm around him and deliberately squeezing as she rocks forward and clings to him.

 

Her tears are what breaks him down; he tastes salt mixed with the couple of drops still on his tongue from her breast and he nuzzles her neck, just there, where her pulse meets his teeth and speeds up as he licks at the wound. She flicks her hair away from him and bends her head, saying yes please with her eyes closed and her fingernails leaving marks over his shoulder blades. He runs his hands up and down her back, calluses catching on the edge of scratches and she doesn't even squirm, so he wipes his palm on her shoulder and tastes the blood as he sucks a bruise into the skin there, his chin resting on her collarbone as it leaks slowly into his mouth.

He intends to stop, but she comes, and his teeth tear her and suddenly he can't control it; his mouth is full of her blood and it spills down his chin and drips onto her breasts. He holds her as she struggles, and swallows what he can.

Her head falls to his shoulder and she's finally still.

 

He runs faster than he has since he came back, since he smelt his great-granddaughter's blood and killed a human, and he hides until he feels his muscles seizing and going soft under his skin.

 

He makes the call what he thinks could be weeks after, when nobody's come for him and he doesn't even know if anyone's on his trail.

"Dean, you did this old dog a real solid, and, the way you stood up for me..."

_You'd have done the same_ , Dean's voice is tinny and the line crackles, but it's a connection, something to hold on to, and he grabs.

"You know what? A cup of coffee sure would do me some good," he says, and he thinks of caramel-coffee coloured skin and the neat lines of red marking it before he licked up each drop and left her as pure and dry as a statue, a monument to how far he's fallen. 

 

Dean refusing to come is the death sentence he feels under his skin and pounding behind his eyes. _It's only a matter of time,_ he tells himself, but he can't pick up his own blade; his hand won't let him hold it, so he waits. Dean will come, one day.


End file.
